Beautiful Thieves
by of doves and calla lilies
Summary: With animosity rampant, the mass of Asgard seeming now to despise him more than ever, Loki found himself grateful for the easy transitions. Yet he also found himself thankful for her, a heart he was always welcomed in, a woman he missed. Loki/Sigyn


_Inspired by: "Beautiful Thieves" by A.F.I._

_**Disclaimer: Neither of us own Marvel, Norse Mythology, Loki, Thor, or any related franchise. We write for fun and your enjoyment, not financial gain.**  
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The news came that he had returned and the Aesir gathered. They wanted to see the man that they believed dead, they wanted to catch a glimpse of the fallen prince led in, made to beg for the forgiveness of the All-Father.

Thor stepped into the room first, features set somewhere between a grimace and frown. Behind him, trailing—hands bound before him and mouth quite neatly bound shut—was the fallen one, eyes downcast. Yet it was not shame that made him avert his gaze. Hatred and betrayal still festered in his heart and those that gathered to gawk at the procession had no need of his attention so he told himself. And he would not grant them such privilege as to meet his eyes.

They had all mourned him, indeed. Such a lie, a lie easily seen through, especially now.

While everyone's gaze followed Thor, it avoided Loki, still trying to come up with how they should think of him. Rumors had spread that Loki was not Thor's brother, that he had been a Jotun child acquired during war. And, yet, while they were ready to leap and scorn the dark-haired man, they found that their golden prince still treated him like a brother. He did not allow Loki to trail behind him for long. Because upon noticing the different pace, Thor slowed, walking at his side, one large hand clasped around his opposite shoulder. His stride was regal, but his face was not proud. He did not smile at the masses, did not wave as he usually did upon the defeat of a foe. It seemed, instead, that his stride quickened as if to pull his silenced, bound companion quicker before the All-Father and put the crowd at their backs out of sight of both men.

The two figures made a grim sight before Odin. One a hero, but looking for all to see as if it was he who had committed the atrocity. The other, not even staunch enough to look into the All-Father's eye as his crimes were repeated. A fallen prince, and many thought the term appropriate. He had no right to stare upon the King of Asgard. Not as the trial proceeded and all in attendance learned of every atrocities their God of Lies had committed.

Then came the time for judgment. The room overflowed with the vociferous demands of justice. The majority wanted to witness the accursed prince laid low.

The majority, but not all.

Thor plead in his brother's stead—a sign of brotherly affection that was not missed by those in attendance. It made him more honorable in the eyes of the citizens, honorable and perhaps naïve, and for some it further complicated the answer of what exactly Loki was. Wayward brother? Cursed son? Blight? Yet, no matter the passion of Thor's appeals, Odin still had the final word in punishment.

Thor for his part, did not flinch. He paid no heed to the jeers of both ridicule and satisfaction at the punishment. His eyes were on Odin. For long while he simply stood there, mouth drawn and eyes raised to their father. Then he nodded and his gaze was cast on his brother. If anyone was mourned for, it was Thor. Loki's fingers flexed in reflex, because it was a thought he knew intimately. No one here cared for him. They were unable to dare steal a glance at the clouded eyes of the man who was being sentenced to an eternity of silence. Unable or refusing. What sympathy did they owe him? They saw him as murderer, traitor, the typical Jotun. He was no regal heir to them, just another criminal. A monster. A monster who had been reined in and would be set upon display as an example of evil.

When they were dismissed, the crowds talked amongst themselves, words of discussion on the punishment loud and public, sparing no heed to the fallen prince of Asgard. They wanted him to hear, but Thor wasted no time in their midst. He didn't even pause to acknowledge the congratulations he was given for bringing back his brother to pay for his misdeeds. He simply led Loki away, grasping his forearm.

He waited until they were out of the throne room, away from the people of court before he spoke to his brother in a whisper: "It could have been worse."

Loki snatched himself from Thor's grasp, acidic words on the tip of his tongue for his so-called brother. "It could have been, Loki." Came his voice, soft and incessant. Yet what could he say? There was no point in asking a silenced man questions. Only his eyes could respond—and Loki's were still clouded from reason by the fires hate and humiliation.

Still Thor beseeched to him. "He could have sentenced you to death."

Yet it did not stop Loki from striding away from Thor, brow furrowed. The chain keeping his wrists close jangled. He had made it no more than few steps before Thor's grasped him by the arm. Loki stopped, body stiff.

"Those should be at least removed," Thor said and when Loki chanced to glance at him, the God of Thunder's eyes were on his manacles. Loki forced himself to relax and when Thor released him Loki followed without guidance.

With animosity rampant, the mass of Asgard seeming now to despise him more than ever, Loki found himself grateful for the easy transitions. He settled into his old chambers. There he was surrounded by all those things that had brought him solace before his descent from Asgard and once again, he found himself consoled in their presence. He spent his time revisiting texts whose pages remained fresh, despite the time gap. It would soon come to pass that his room and another place he had dear would become his respite from the judgement of Asgard and his sole ways of avoiding the guards that his father had follow him.

It was after his return that Loki made his first bold move. They may have silenced the Trickster, but many tricks were not pulled by mere words alone. He managed to evade the guards, cloaking himself with what magic remained in his grasp—spoken spells had become out of the question and acquiring anything for salves and elixirs was impossible because if he had been watched closely before eyes snapped to him like hawks now—and began the journey to another land.

He followed memories, recalling a face that he had called forth countless times when offered solitude on Midgard. He would take up a scrying bowl and, in the water that mingled with his own blood, he would conjure the image of her.

He travelled with a dark cloak around his shoulders, praying at every step that his spell would hold out and Heimdal would not be aware that he was gone, that his double—a copy he was not proud of because with only half of the proper spells used, it was a hollow shell that knew no speech—would fool the guards.

She—the face he had known in the years before his fall and later only by images—wandered the garden in a gown of lavender. A light dress, one that gave the false impression she was simply a maid wandering amongst the flowers that she tended. He approached her, never bothering to push back his hood, afraid of what she would think if she laid eyes upon him.

When she turned and her gray eyes fell on him, he was surprised at the expression that spread across her features. It was as if the sun had taken residence in her eyes when the corners of her mouth curved upright. She turned sharply on her heel and ran to him, throwing her arms around him. He could make no noise, no declaration that he did not deserve this warm welcome. All he could do was hold her against him, fingers brushing the bare skin that was exposed on her arms. He relished in the unearned contact for as long as he could until she pulled back. She remained at an arms-length, but her own hands rose to his face. It was her hands that pulled back his hood and he saw the way her breath caught when she was met with the sight beneath.

Her fingers traced the metal that impeded his speech and Loki closed his eyes. "So this is your punishment," she said quietly.

This woman had been his lover. She was a faithful, forgotten princess; one of the children of Vanaheim's king before the people had been stripped of titles, though they had been bestowed their own attributes to be known for in their stead. It was a privilege that had previously been only the Aesir's. She had been declared Fidelity and had forever since been seen as a maid in the eyes of the court; Loki saw her as much more. As children, she had shown Asgard's then second son compassion when he gave her sympathy. They began to serve as the other's solace, sharing secrets, and as time went on those secrets became intimate until it was not just words given to one another. They gave themselves.

Yet now, her statement lingered in the air, but he did not nod to her assumption, instead he simply opened his eyes. He met her gaze and her hand rose for the moment to his cheek.

"I tried," she whispered. "I tried to find you, but they would not allow it." She kissed his nose and Loki knew they both longed to share an actual kiss and his lips burned beneath his brand.

Her palm stroked his cheek and then left his skin to follow the metal that covered his jaw. His hand snapped up. He gripped her wrist, stopping her from trailing back much further. Their eyes met again, both of them hard. She frowned.

"You shouldn't be kept like this. Let me take it off," she ordered.

He released her wrist and let his hands fall back to his side. He watched her, waited for her to realize the errors in her assumption. Yet all-too-sudden he felt the restraint released-the strip of metal that had suppressed his tongue gone and removed. He stared at her. She grinned, the strange contraption cradled in her hands. Loki felt his lips tingle in the air as they too drew into a grin. He rushed forward.

She discarded the muzzle, allowing it to fall to the ground as his arms wound around her. His fingers tangled in her hair, drawing her head back before his mouth covered hers. It was the kiss of a desperate man responded to in kind. They held each other tight, as if horrified by the notion of ever parting; even their lips scantly left the company of the other's.

"Sigyn," his voice was raw from being kept silenced, "how I have missed you."

She gave him no words, only offered her lips and it was enough. They spoke little and when the hour for him to depart lest he be discovered came, it found the two of them in the grass, clothed but bodies entangled and his face buried in the column of her neck. He did not want to leave, but knew it was best if he left. He reluctantly pulled himself away from her and helped her back to her feet as well.

"Put it back," he said as he held his punishment in his hand and spoke in the same hoarse tone.

She hesitated a moment, but took it from his fingers. "Of course," she murmured. She slipped it back into place enacting the enchantment again, but before he could pull away her hand came to rest on his cheek once again and she leaned forward. "I want you to come back." The words teased his ears along with her breath. She kissed his cheek and he withdrew, unable to see the anguish that dimmed her features, quite sure that if he turned and saw her standing there, he might never leave.

And despite all of the Aesir's efforts to keep him imprisoned, every night—every single night—he returned to her private gardens the second he was given respite from the cold halls of Asgard, to her gardens and heart a place he was welcomed. Every night he came to her and she removed his mask, allowing him to speak in a voice that slowly returned to the way she remembered. And every night both would let down their barriers as clothing was removed.

In the audience of nothing but the flora around them, Loki's hands would explore the body he had known for so long and had dreamed of on Midgard and sometimes his voice would take to rasping again, but not in disuse and her own husky tenor would answer his own. Yet it always ended with him leaving. Sigyn would press his muzzle back to his lips, applying all the incantations that she had broken, and remind him that he had fallen in love with the fetter of goddesses. These words were not spoken brightly. He saw the unhappiness in her eyes; the reluctance as she returned him to the state that he felt Odin decreed he would forever remain.

She often mused that he should never return to Asgard, but whenever she suggested this, he would always tell her that he wanted to try and win back his place. Yet weeks went by—they evolved into months before his eyes—and it remained that he was still the fallen prince. And though they (his parents and Thor) tried to pretend that he was the same Loki, he was treated differently, feared and despised by all and mocked in the streets. Thor became the attentive older brother and his parents—he still called his mother, mother, but he refused the same for Odin—had turned more attention to him. Yet, their attention, so looked for him previous came too late. He was not Loki, called Mischief when his pranks were harmless, any longer. He finally made his decision, he agreed with Sigyn.

So when next he met her after his mind was decided, he told her his plan to leave the moment she removed his restraint.

"I'm going with you," she said and he only nodded.

They left in the twilight, both cloaked, carrying few things between them. He took the lead, his hand grasping hers tightly, never telling her where they were going. She never asked.

They left only one palpable thing behind them: the mask, Asgard's attempt to silence chaos.


End file.
